My Inspiration
by TheFarceHunter
Summary: Edgar is struggling to paint something to be proud of, and Fred decides to give him a little help. T for some mild language.


Author's Note: Ya-ho! Here's another episode of randomness, this time, about the Thorney Towers crew. Take it as you please. I even wrote a short poem for those who actually read my work. I don't own Psychonauts, by the way.

_Roses are red, violets are blue, if you like Farcie's writing, please read and review!_

My Inspiration

Edgar gazed at the blank canvas before him. The brawny Spaniard clutched a thick paintbrush in his left hand while his right traced the rough surface of the clean, white paper propped up by a steel easel. The coarse texture sent chills of excitement down Edgar's spine; a thousand possibilities and inspirations raced through his head, yet the minute he set the brush to the paper, his ideas disappeared like a flash of lightning.

"Every time," Edgar raged, throwing the wooden brush to the paint-spattered, cement floor, "I can't seem to remember. One minute, I know exactly what I want. The next, nothing!" The former wrestler clutched his head with his robust hands. "Every time," he repeated softly to himself, his anger fading to disappointment. He had been cured, or at least temporarily eradicated of his obsession with bullfights and the hatred they aroused. It had been six months since he, Boyd, Gloria, and Fred left the asylum together. The four lived in the roomy estate Gloria von Gouten lived in before she was sent to Thorney Towers, as she was kind enough to house them for as long as they desired. Fred and Edgar occupied the basement, living in rooms across from each other, and Boyd lived on the first story, next to Gloria. It did not take them long to get adjusted to their new arrangements, and they soon became very close friends. They wanted a clean slate, a fresh start for their lives, and all but Edgar had moved on. Boyd had found a job as a night guard at a local shopping mall, Gloria taught singing and acting lessons from her home, and Fred was going back to school in business administration. Edgar remained an artist, unable to find a new occupation for himself while he struggled to continue his passion for painting. He sold smaller, insignificant works to make some income, but nothing he had created said anything about himself of his new life. He yearned for a way out of the secure standstill that he had reached, the quiet, boring space between sane and comatose. It was safer to live as he had for those long six months, afraid to begin a transformation, but that sort of life was empty, and Edgar did not need any more emptiness on the pages on his life's newest chapter. He was finally ready to meet his destiny.

Fred peeked at Edgar from behind his bedroom wall. He was worried that his friend was regressing to his previous state of mental illness, but he did not want to bring it up. The gangly man was finished studying for the night, and he was about to fall asleep before he heard Edgar's pained roar from across the hall. Watching the Spaniard work had become a pastime for Fred; whenever he could not focus on the piles of tedious busywork and term papers he was assigned by the city community college, he stood inconspicuously behind the wall to watch his friend embark on an emotional roller-coaster. It made Fred glad he could not paint; the intense internal battles of an artist were hard enough to witness in _another _person, and he was grateful to not have experienced them for himself. After all, he had his fair share of battles to fight, literally and figuratively. He was moved by Edgar's raw ability as well as his emotions; his strong, yet gentle brushstrokes, the bold, intense colors, and the character, one that Fred could not quite describe, of the paintings were beautiful and shrouded in mystery. He, Boyd, and Gloria had always praised Edgar's paintings, and they could see that he was appreciative. Still, neither the night guard nor the former actress saw the frustration in the painter's eyes, the feeling that none of his finished works would ever amount to a true masterpiece, a painting worthy of exceeding his expectations and fulfilling his desires. Fred never wanted to see that look in Edgar's eyes again, but as he stood, hiding behind the wall, he knew that his wish was futile. _I wish I could do something to help the guy_, Fred thought, _he's worse this time_. Slowly, he gathered the courage to approach Edgar. He realized how much he was exaggerating the gravity of the situation. _Oh, Fred, just go talk to him. He's not going to bite you, hopefully._ He smoothed out his white t-shirt and walked across the hall to Edgar's doorway. The tall, thin man knocked three times and smiled sheepishly.

"Hey, Edgar. Everything okay, buddy?" Fred's expression remained concerned when the painter did not respond. _He's probably just tired_, he thought, straining to see Edgar's eyes through his thick, dark hair. Edgar composed himself after a few minutes and faced Fred, his eyes radiating pleasant surprise.

"Oh, Fred. I am very sorry, I did not hear you come in. Please, sit down." The painter motioned to a short stool close to his, and Fred awkwardly took a seat. "I guess I just have trouble getting out of my daydreams," Edgar added with a smile. "So, you are finished with schoolwork for today, I suppose?"

"Yes, I think so," Fred sighed, "Going back to school after all these years is such hard work. I've been swamped these past few weeks, which is why I have been missing dinner with you three lately. I'm too tired to work ahead, so I called it quits." He stared over at the blank canvas, trying to get Edgar to talk about his troubles, though he did not want to admit that he had been watching his friend. "Are you starting something new?"

"Trying to," Edgar said, frowning, "I am failing miserably, actually. I see all these perfect ideas in my head, but when I try to put one on the canvas, bam!" He exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands, "they leave me. I started one, but it was nothing like I had planned," Fred looked to the corner of the room to see a canvas covered entirely in red paint; obviously, Edgar did not even want to look at his unsuccessful attempt at his dream painting.

"What if you sketch it out, first?" Fred suggested, hoping that he did not say something stupid or arrogant. He winced, feeling like he had embarrassed himself, but Edgar reassured him by nodding and smiling, as if he should have thought of the concept before.

"A good idea, my friend, but it will not work. I cannot sketch these kinds of images, because they are too easily distorted to begin with. I can't imagine my painting when it is first in pencil. I am at my best when it is only me, my brush, and the canvas. I also lose interest when I have to draw it out, first," he laughed again, "I have quite the short attention span." Fred grinned with him.

"I'm with you there, pal. Creativity is in short bursts, anyways. I mean, inspiration is always a quick flash, like an epiphany. Isn't it?" Edgar nodded in agreement. He felt better, less hopeless now that Fred came to talk with him. For such a young, gawky man, Fred was very intelligent and caring. The Spaniard felt lucky to have a friend like him. There still was one issue on his mind, however.

"I hope that it will come, soon. My inspiration, I mean," Edgar said softly, "I am not getting any younger, and I need to come up with something good, quickly, before I become a has-been and lose my drive." Fred scoffed at him.

"Are you kidding? You don't need to think about age, yet. Inspiration may come in an instant, but I don't mean _this_ instant. People wait years, decades before they are honestly inspired. Just look at thousands of famous writers, painters, musicians, etcetera. Many of them were in their forties or fifties when they did their best work. Don't worry about it. You'll be fine, I promise." Edgar let the worry hovering over him subside a little. Though he was not an artist, Fred knew what he was talking about, and Edgar trusted him.

"Thank you, Fred. I really needed that. It has been a very rough time for me recently." Fred knew this was true, but was still too embarrassed to tell him.

"Sure thing. Anytime you need me, you know where I am. I'll let you go, now." Fred shot Edgar a playful smirk as he stretched his legs from sitting on the tiny stool.

"Are you going to go to bed? I hope I haven't kept you up too long." Fred stopped mid-step and turned around. He was exhausted, but he was no longer sleepy enough to actually go to bed.

"Naw, don't worry about it. I wouldn't have fallen asleep, anyways. I'm not that tired." Edgar chortled as Fred stifled a yawn.

"The bags under your eyes say otherwise. Go to bed and do not work yourself so hard tomorrow. You are getting like me: obsessive compulsive."

"Ha, ha, very funny. I need to review a little, though. I'll sleep in an hour or so." Edgar looked skeptical, but he didn't complain. Fred returned to his bedroom and sat at the large, oak desk by his bed. He skimmed over his notes, leaving Edgar to himself once more. He decided not to strain himself and instead allowed his creativity to flow through his mind. As before, the ideas surged by the hundreds, but Edgar let them pass; none of them were catching his attention enough for him to remember them. He cleared his thoughts and shifted his stool behind the halfway open door, watching Fred study. _He won't see me, will he? Even so, I don't think he is awake enough to care,_ he thought to himself. The kid was impressive to Edgar. He was never that dedicated academically, and the thought of someone continuing to look at notes at midnight was unheard of when he was in school. He studied Fred's halfway focused expression, the dark circles under his eyes, his hunched back, and his chin resting in his hand. He was just as ready as Edgar for a fresh start in life, the painter noticed, and that is why the two had always gotten along so well, even at the asylum, where Fred was relentlessly taunted by Crispin, the nearly blind cynic, and Edgar was often too busy with his own struggle, the rage of El Odio, his traumatic high school years to interact very much with the other inmates. As he mused over his time with Fred at Thorney Towers, something in his brain clicked. An overwhelming sense of duty and excitement hit him at full force. His mind racing, Edgar ran over to grab his paints, brush, and canvas. Immediately he began to paint, not even thinking about his previous creative and emotional stump. His inspiration had called him at last.

At six o'clock in the morning, Edgar set his dripping paintbrush to the floor. A glorious smile crept upon his lips. It was finished, and it was something he actually felt proud of, for once in his life. Not even painting the Loboto portrait could satisfy him to such an extent. _It is here! _He exclaimed, _I am finally free!_ Edgar threw on some fresh clothing and grabbed his work of art. He rushed up the stairs, stepping quietly so he would not wake the others, and went into the kitchen for some breakfast. To his shock, Gloria was standing over the counter in a glossy, ivory robe. Her red hair was flowing beautifully to her waist. Edgar felt ashamed.

"Gloria, I'm sorry. Did I keep you awake all this time?" The actress turned to face him. She was beaming from ear to ear. Since she left the asylum, Gloria had cleaned up well. Her hair was neat and healthy, her skin was bright and smooth, and she dressed very nicely every day. She and Fred had become closer than the others, and Boyd conspired with Edgar from time to time to set the two up on a date.

"Oh, sweetie, of course not! You were up all night? You poor thing! No, I get up at five-thirty sharp every morning to have a glass of water. It's good for your skin, you know." Edgar sighed with relief. He would have been horrified if his hostess had been up all night after allowing him to stay in her home indefinitely. Gloria's eyes searched down to Edgar's feet, where the drying painting was propped up. She squealed with delight.

"Edgar, darling, is that yours?" She said, scurrying over to take a closer look. Edgar nodded bashfully, lifting it up to his waist.

"Yes, that is what I have been doing all night," he said, grinning, "I am going to take it with my smaller ones out to my kiosk this afternoon."

"Well, I think it is a marvelous painting, and you had better make sure you charge enough for it," Gloria exclaimed. "I hope you paint something for me one of these days."

"Of course, Gloria. I promise. So, where are Fred and Boyd?"

"Boyd is still sleeping. He had a rough shift last night. And Fred, I think he left for school already." The Spaniard's eyes widened slightly.

"Already? Well, I guess college is getting harder and harder on the students." Gloria nodded, mouthing an 'I know!' in disbelief. She handed Edgar an apple as he left the house, waving goodbye as he carefully shut the front door.

"Gah! I'm late, late, late! I promised Boyd I'd be back at three forty-five sharp to help him in the yard! Not good!" Fred cursed to himself as he ran as fast as he could down the side street to Gloria's house. It was an excruciatingly long day at school, but his test had gone very well and he managed to get ahead in his term paper. He had stayed late in the library, and he forgot all about the chores he needed to do with Boyd. It was three fifty, and he was still five minutes away, near the street kiosk where Edgar sold his art. He stopped in his tracks as he saw a large crowd gathered around the small booth.

"This one's amazing! It's the best I've ever seen from him, and I've been buying Edgar's paintings for years!" One man cried to another.

"No kidding," the other said, "this is extraordinary." Fred stood on his tip-toes so he could see. As he saw the painting, he gasped. On Edgar's canvas was Fred himself, his lean body hunched over his desk and his facial features clearly drowsy but firm with determination. The detail of his notebook, clothing, face, and hair, which was tousled from a long day of studying were faultless. Even the complex grain of the oak desk was painted to perfection. A few female customers saw Fred in the back of the crowd and recognized him. _Of course they're gonna see you, old boy_, he thought, laughing internally, _just look at yourself._ The three women smiled knowingly and whispered amongst themselves happily.

"That's so adorable!" One of them giggled, her blonde hair flowing gracefully past her shoulders. She wore a pink sundress and looked exceptionally effeminate.

"I know!" The second squeaked as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and smoothed out her green t-shirt. "Do you think they're-"

"Of course not!" The third interrupted, her dark brown bangs covering her cerulean eyes. She looked over at Fred, who gave her a flirtatious look. "See?" she demanded, scolding the other two, who pouted in disappointment.

"Aw, that's no fun," the blonde said as she drooped her shoulders, "but maybe we could have some other kinds of fun…" She was about to approach the tall man, but when she looked up, Fred was gone. The raven-haired tomboy caught a glimpse of him running down the street and sighed.

"Hey, Boyd. Sorry I'm late." Fred announced, tossing his bag to the floor and running his fingers through his hair. Boyd waved as he walked down the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

"What's up, Fred? I just woke up two minutes ago. Don't worry, anyways. I know you're really busy."

"Well, I feel bad, anyways. Rough night, eh?" Boyd rolled his eyes.

"No shit. At one, there was a huge riot. We had to call in backup and they were busy at another location. Anyways, we'd better get started on those shrubs. They're monsters." The two men headed outside together. Gloria saw the two and prepared a pitcher of lemonade for them. As Boyd and Fred brought the hedge clippers from the garage, Gloria sat on the top step of the back porch. She smiled at Fred when the two returned.

"Hey, handsome," she said coyly, sending a blush across Fred's face. "I see you are a celebrity now."

"You mean Edgar's painting?" He asked, trying desperately not to let Boyd see his flushed face. Gloria nodded, surprised that he had seen it already. "Yeah, I kinda helped him out last night. I guess I inspired him a little more than I thought." Behind him, Boyd was snickering, and Fred smacked him on the arm while still facing Gloria. "Shut up, you," he said, "I didn't mean _that_ way." Gloria shook her head, trying to suppress her amusement. This sent Boyd into another fit of laughter, much to Fred's chagrin. Everyone around him was insane, he thought to himself. _What's up with people lately? It must be in the water or something._

After the shrubs were finally trimmed, Boyd and Gloria went back inside the house for dinner. Fred, having eaten already, decided to stay out on the porch and stare at the sky. His thoughts immediately went to Edgar. He should have been home already, and Fred was starting to worry. He groaned as he rose to his feet, his muscles aching. The sun had already set, he noticed, as he strained to look down the street for his friend. _He probably was talking late with a customer. Don't be so paranoid_. Fred waited five more minutes then decided to join the others inside. He figured Edgar was either home already and Fred had just waited for nothing, or he was still occupied at the store and would return later. As he opened the door, he realized that everyone had gone to bed, and his noise was probably disturbing them. _Crap! _Fred yelped mentally as he crept downstairs. He opened his bedroom door and paused, seeing something out of the ordinary. Fred smiled as he approached the large, green plastic bag laying on his bed, reading the card on top that read, "I just couldn't sell it. It belongs to you". He opened the bag, revealing the vivid, stunning painting of himself. He delicately lifted the canvas and hung it next to his desk as a reminder to himself; that though the Spaniard would never believe it, Edgar was the true inspiration.

"Hey, Edgar," Fred started, wanting to thank his friend for his gift. As he shouted, however, Fred heard the painter snoring and let his voice drop to a whisper. He flipped the light switch and crawled into bed. He let his eyelids fall as the entire neighborhood settled down for the night, allowing only two more words escape his lips before sleep overcame him. "Thank you."

A/N: Woooooo! I saw the Harry Potter movie, and it was pretty good. The creepy Inquisitor lady kind of reminds me of someone at my school. Not good. Anyways, I'd appreciate the reviews, everyone. You're a great audience .


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